


Buckle Up Tight

by ruric



Category: Actor RPF, Kane (Band)
Genre: Highway miles challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-24
Updated: 2006-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:59:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the highwaymiles challenge prompt: "We're trapped in the car and it's raining again", Sweet Carolina Rain by Kane</p><p>Chris and Steve head out to Ojai for a little reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buckle Up Tight

Dragged from a too deep sleep by the incessant buzzing of his cell, he nearly fumbles it onto the floor before fingers made clumsy by one too many late nights, too many beers with whiskey chasers _last_ night, manage to get a secure grip on it.

The plastic is cool against sleep-warmed skin and he flips it open without looking at the display, too damn tired to even try to open his eyes. Doesn’t know what time it is, doesn’t fucking care, just wants the fucker on the other end to go away and let him sleep. Cutting a new album always leaves him feeling wasted, even more than the wrap party last night to celebrate them laying down the final track which had gone on long past when he wanted everyone to go home. 

Six months spent wired. 

Six months of writing all day and chasing every opportunity to get his songs placed, evenings spent playing in the studio over and over again ‘til it was right. No energy left to play any gigs. Getting home to fall onto his bed too exhausted to sleep properly, only to wake in the small hours haunted by the formless shadows of nightmares he can’t name and he’s more than ready to chill. The third album bearing his name finally in the can and ready to go and he knows his style has changed again. There’s a bitter edge to these songs that wasn’t in his earlier work.

Six months spent waiting for a phone call he’s not even gonna think about right now.

“Yeah?” 

He knows his voice is rough with sleep, whiskey and the sweet smoke of pot. He hopes to fuck there isn’t some wide-awake, bright-eyed, over enthusiastic record exec on the other end of the line full of plans for co-writing down in Nashville, wanting to speak to the obviously _very_ fucking absent other half of the band.

“Hey. Goin’ to Ojai. You comin’?”

Wide awake and swallowing hard before the sentence is even finished, he can tell from the rawness of the voice in his ear that it isn’t a request, never is when it’s asked like that. Not when Chris’s accent is as thick and sweet and sticky as molasses, gone all deep south, home town, good ol’ boy.

He blinks hard a couple of times to bring the room into focus, his gaze slowly clearing to see the early morning sun slanting in through the window and realizes he’s not had more than a couple of hours sleep. His tongue feels hairy as an old rug, like something small and furry died in his mouth.

Tension thrums through the air, increasing with every passing second when he doesn’t answer. He can hear it in the raggedly drawn breath at the other end and his fingers grip his cell so hard they lose all feeling, nails bending against plastic.

“When the fuck did you get back and where are you?” 

Words spoken to give him a second to collect scattered thoughts, to try and get a brain fuzzy from lack of sleep and dulled by a hangover back on-line and into the game. He tries to recall whether he’d made any plans for today, tomorrow, who the fuck knows how long, that need to be cancelled, and isn’t it a damn good job the wrap was yesterday and the album’s in the can.

“’bout an hour ago and I’m outside your door. You comin’?”

Staring up at the white ceiling, though the motes of dust dancing in the air in front of his eyes, he breathes in deep and counts to ten real slow.

“Give me a few minutes.”

Head rolling on the pillow, he snaps his cell shut, puts it back on the table and looks at the mass of hair beside him. Carefully sliding his other arm out from under Caitlin? Carolynne? Whatever – her name was probably about as real as the rest of her. Wavy blonde hair, wide blue eyes, long, long legs, pneumatic breasts that don’t move the way real ones do. She mumbles and burrows deeper, pulling the covers higher over a slash of scarlet lipstick smudged across full lips, and he smiles remembering a sweet mouth that can talk real dirty and do a few more things beside.

Easing his way out from under the covers to sit on the edge of the bed, he reaches for the notepad he keeps close by - used to the way his creativity works – knowing that some of his best songs are born in the moments just before sleep comes, or in the precious few minutes before he fully wakes up. Balancing the pad on his knee, he scrawls a quick note of apology, tears it off and leaves it on the pillow beside her. He doubts he’ll ever hear from her again, they both got what they wanted – he had a warm and willing body in his bed, she’s got a story to tell to her friends at parties - and neither of them had expectations beyond the one sweet night together.

He pulls on his jeans, grabs his rucksack and stuffs a couple of changes of clothes inside, shoves clean socks into his boots and tucks them under his arm. Pads silently out of the room, down the hall and into the bathroom. A couple more minutes taken to wash and pull on a slightly crumpled, but clean, shirt from the rack over the bath where they’ve been drying. Not thinking about who and what is waiting for him outside the door cause there’s no point in borrowing trouble.

He takes a quick look in the mirror and sees the dark circles under his eyes, skin pale from too many days and nights in a studio and not enough time in what passes for fresh air around here or out under the sun. A few days away from LA may be just what he needs too.

Rucksack hoisted over his shoulder, he steps into the hall one hand reaching for the guitar, still in its case where he left it last night, the other snagging the hat off the hook where it hangs behind the door. A Stetson isn’t the kind of hat he’d ever have bought himself, not enough redneck in him to carry it off well, and the truth is he always feels slightly silly wearing it. But Chris got it for him and so he wears it, and he does need something the keep the sun off his head in Ojai.

Fingers catching the screen, he slips out of the door, taking care not to let it bang behind him, and sure enough the truck is there and ready to go. 

The engine coughs to life as he throws his rucksack in the back on top of the sleeping bags and other kit kept there for just this kind of getaway, and he tugs the tarp down over them. His guitar always comes in the front with him. He slides it into the cab of the truck, settling it deep in the well, his boots and hat tossed in to follow. One foot inside and the door’s still half open, his ass nowhere close to being on the seat when Chris floors it and the truck lurches forward with a squeal of rubber on concrete.

The door closes with a slam louder than he intended. A bitten off half-growled sigh escapes as his balance is lost, shoulder banging into the windshield, the top of his scalp grazing the roof of the cab. Ass finally hitting leather, shoulders pressing into the back of the seat as he shifts and makes like a contortionist, setting one leg either side of the guitar case giving it some protection. The sole of one bare foot presses against worn leather, the metal of the hinge cool against his skin, his fingers wrapping around the neck, hands twisting it to pull it close until he’s satisfied it’s safe, protected from the insanity of Chris’s driving.

Thankful as fuck that it’s early enough on a Sunday morning for there not to be traffic cops around. 

But there's no wicked grin and a flash of teeth, no blue eyes dancing with laughter, no joking questions about why he’s tiptoeing out of his own house with his boots in his hands, still smelling faintly of sex and sweat. 

If he hadn’t known before, he damn well knows now it’s gonna be one of _those_ trips.

He cuts a glance over at Chris to see him staring straight ahead, eyes narrowed against the early morning glare, little creases radiating out from the corners, curving up towards his eyebrows and down to line the top of his cheeks. Lips thinned, jaw clenched, a muscle jumping high under the cheekbone and if Steve listens carefully he could probably hear Chris grinding his teeth. Boy’s got a real head of steam going and no mistake.

Took Steve a black eye, a split lip and half his ribs cracked to learn there are times to talk and times to keep quiet. Not that Chris didn’t walk away with just as many bruises and marks in return. But nine years and a whole hell’vua lotta mileage later they’ve got something figured that works. 

He knows when to swallow the questions, when asking them will get him nothing but the patented, narrowed-eyed, thousand-yard stare and absolute silence. But he also knows when to wave the red rag to Chris’s temper, when to hunker down and hold on and ride the whirlwind. 

It’s all about timing, and Steve’s timing over the years has grown damn near perfect.

He slides his ass across the leather, ‘til his butt almost hangs off the seat, the body of the guitar nestling under his balls and the neck pressing into the crease of his thigh. A long, slow, deep breath whispers over his lips, his head tipping back to find the comfortable curve of leather under bare skin. His fingers catch the edge of the hat, set it on his head, and pull it down over his eyes, muscles relaxing one by one, his body easing down into a comfortable sprawl.

Sometimes you talk, sometimes you just shut the fuck up and let the minutes tick by in silence. 

Let the truck eat the miles up, her engine running easily, knowing they’ll clear the city in no time and the sun will climb higher as they head into the hills. There are too many things it could be, no point in worrying about what kicked it off _this_ time until Chris’s ready to talk or until Steve gets tired of waiting.

Not enough sleep in weeks, nowhere near enough last night and Steve knows he’s gonna need it to deal with whatever’s coming. His eyes flutter closed, soothed by the hum of the engine, the warm sunlight painting his skin easing away aches and tension as he drifts into a dreamless, deep sleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

He doesn’t wake until the truck’s bumping over a dirt road, tires bouncing over gulleys and potholes worn by flash floods and still he keeps the hat tilted down over his eyes. He waits until the truck shudders to a halt and the engine cuts, waits until he hears the jangle of keys and the slam of the door.

Pulling the hat off, he puts it on the dash squinting out at a landscape lit by the harsh brilliance of the near noon sun. Sliding a little higher on the seat, his skin prickles as feeling returns to an ass numbed by the lack of movement. Smiling a little, he recognizes the surrounding hills, the hollow protected by low scrub. First place they ever came out here, the one only they ever come to be alone. Oh sure, they might bring other people out to Ojai, but neither of them has ever brought anyone else to this spot.

Blinking, Steve peers past the layer of dust on the glass to see Chris standing in front of the truck. His back to the windshield, arms raised high above his head as he stretches, twisting to the left and right, rolling his shoulders, loosening muscles locked by whatever the fuck is eating him up and from driving for so long.

Bending down Steve pulls on socks, shoves his feet into the boots and laces them, cracks open the door and breathes deep of clear, fresh air not polluted by the smell of car fumes. Dry and arid, carrying the faintest hint of sage and orange in the slight breeze that ruffles his hair, he fills his lungs again and feels some of the tension ease out of his neck. Shouldering the door open and he jumps out of the cab pulling the guitar after him, stowing it under the tarp in the back, now it’s safe from Chris’s driving. 

An hour spent setting up the camp. A hollow dug for the fire, a circle of stones arranged to bracket in it. Enough wood in the truck, under the tarp, to keep them warm for a few nights when the temperature drops. No more than half a dozen words exchanged, just the “here’s” and “thanks” and the “want more?” and “please’s” as they pass things between them. They’ve done this so often that the set up is smooth and easy and there’s no need to talk. 

Another couple of hours to take a walk into the hills, reveling in the chance to get away from the ever present buzz of traffic in LA. The only thing they hear is birdsong, crickets chirping in the scrub and the scuff of boots over dirt and rock. They’re not exactly walking together, not exactly walking apart, settling into a rhythm where one ranges ahead for a while, then waits, and they change places. 

It’s easy not to think out under a limitless sky. 

Easy to just let his eyes absorb the surroundings, attracted by the glint of crystal in rock, the shiver of vegetation as something rustles in the scrub, gaze drawn curves inscribed in the sand where a rattler has been basking in the sun. Easy to let his mind freewheel, and Steve finds he’s humming a refrain that might or might not turn into a song as he walks. Pausing to take a breath, his fingers pick out notes on his thigh while he waits for Chris to catch up, a jumble of words in his head aligning into a simple refrain which may be the first line of a chorus.

Both of them keep an eye on the sky, turning back when the first fast-moving gray clouds darken the horizon. Pace quickening a little, walking shoulder to shoulder now, and Steve wonders whether they’re going to beat the approaching storm back to the truck or get caught in the open. Sunlight is rapidly replaced by dull overcast skies and the temperature drops.

“Wanna make a run for it?”

Steve turns to look because that’s the most words he’s heard out of Chris since the phone call this morning, and that’s when he feels the first spot of rain on his cheek. Nodding as they break out into a jog, little puffs of dust rising with every step as the rain starts to spatter down. Speeding up when they hear the distant roll of thunder, an opening fanfare, but they’re too late. The heavens open and rain pounds into them with the force of a monsoon, beating across their shoulders, sliding between cotton and skin.

Fingers grab the brims of hats pulled hastily from their heads as they race flat out for the truck. Hair plastered seal sleek to their skulls, cotton and denim sticking wetly to skin, slipping and sliding, racing over dirt turning rapidly to mud with every squelching step. Yanking open the doors, they half-fall, half-climb inside, breathless and shivering at the contrast of cold water to the earlier heat. 

All their kit still on the flatbed of the truck, but at least it’s protected by the tarp. Leaning forward, Steve’s panted breaths fog the glass. His fingers rake through rattails of wet hair, dragging it out of his eyes, off the back of his neck to wring it out in an attempt to stop the river of cold water running down his back. Soft curses next to him pull the corners of his mouth into a grin, as Chris twists and turns trying to tug something out from behind the seat.

A bottle of Jack produced with a flourish and a ‘”Got you, you bastard,” but Steve’s huff of laughter is drowned by the rain. A twist of Chris’s wrist and the bottle is opened, Chris’s chin tilting to the roof of the cab as he takes one long, deep hit, coughs, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and passes the bottle across.

Whiskey fumes combine with the scent of wet clothing and mud, and Steve’s fingers brush Chris’s as he takes the bottle. A skitter of anticipation snakes up his arm and across his chest, breath stuttering once, before he tilts his head back and swallows just as deep, eyes watering as the burn of the liquor warms him inside even as his skin gooses.

Panted breaths slow and fade to be replaced by the chink of silver on glass, as they pass the bottle back and forth in silence, except for the hammering of the rain against the windshield. 

A shiver climbs from the base of his spine to his skull, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, when he turns to pass the bottle back to Chris once again, and sees the naked, wounded look in his eyes. Chris’s lips are moving but Steve can’t hear the softly spoken words over the buzz of alcohol in his ears and the staccato gun rattle of rain against metal.

“What?”

The bottle is passed back into fingers that reach too eagerly for it.

“We’re over.”

Steve doesn’t have to ask who the ‘ _we_ ’ is or what’s ‘ _over_ ’ – he’s lost count of the number of times they’ve been here in the last few years, every time Dave gets a guilt trip about the wife or kid, or when some new asshole director or his publicists are riding him hard.

Too much Jack on an empty stomach loosens Steve’s tongue dangerously past diplomatic, and the snort that emerges is way the fuck over towards exasperated rather than sympathetic. Words follow fast, tripping across his tongue and pushed between his teeth, before he’s has a chance to censor them. 

“Yeah, I heard that one before too.”

He sees nothing but the back of Chris’s head, the curve of his shoulder, muscles outlined under wet cotton, hears only the clink of metal on glass as the bottle is wedged between the seat and the door. But he can taste it in the acid flooding his mouth. Feel it coiling deep in his belly and in the prickle across his skin. Choke on it in the bubble of air that seems caught in his throat. 

His timing is still good. 

Not the way he’d have chosen to do this if his blood wasn’t mostly whiskey right now, but it’s far too late to change it. 

When Chris turns and comes at him faster than anyone has the right to move in such a cramped space, eyes burning with anger, there’s no doubt the red rag has been waved good and well. Nothing he can do now but hang on and reap the whirlwind.

Knuckles graze Steve’s chin, sending his head slamming into the back of the cab and, for a timeless eternity, a line of stars dance and gyrate across his vision. Hands fist in the front of his shirt, Chris’s nails grazing, digging down through damp cotton to score lines of fire across his chest. Lips mash against his, teeth not far behind and the coppery taste of blood is bright as his lip splits and Chris’s tongue, whiskey-warm, snakes into his mouth.

A knee bumps his hip, a boot grazes down over his calf and Chris eels from the driver’s side on over. Chris’s other knee lands on the soft part of Steve’s thigh with enough force to pull a moan out of his chest, and he knows he’ll be wearing at least one mark for days to come. 

One arm caught beneath Chris’s forearm, the other trapped between their bodies, Steve’s hips buck up and twist. 

Chris’s body shifts, and there’s just enough room for Steve to get one hand free. Fingers winding into long wet hair, dragging Chris’s mouth away, panting into the scant inches of space between them. Steve stares up into eyes blown black, pupils haloed by the merest sliver of stormy blue and kiss bruised lips carrying a smear of red.

Buttons pop when fingers tear at his shirt, nails scratching down over bared skin to tug at the buckle of his belt and pop the button on his jeans. Hair tightens around his fingers as Chris leans forward, stubble grazing across his cheek, a whisper of hot breath over his ear. The growl that slides into his head and down his spine might just have contained the words “Want you” or he could’ve imagined them, conjuring them out of need and months of silence.

Steve doesn’t want to fight this, six months of waiting and he’s skin hungry too. 

Releasing his hold on Chris’s hair frees both his hands to work at the shirt, numb fingers trying to fumble button through holes, wet material fighting him every step of the way. Giving up to let his hands slide down over muscles shifting under wet cotton to grab the bottom of Chris’s shirt and pull it up and over his head. 

Muffled curses spat out to be drowned by wet cloth, but the heat of Chris’s breath sears through the material brushing Steve’s cheeks. Shirttails pushed into one hand, his fingers curl around the collar to strip cotton from Chris’s skin, skin that’s always hot to the touch. The itch in Steve’s fingertips intensifying as they slide down Chris’s ribs, over a tautly muscled belly, to dip between denim and skin. 

His hips rise from the seat as Chris’s fingers yank at his jeans, wet material peeled away and pushed down to Steve’s knees, a tangle of denim and limbs and that ain’t gonna work. Fingers close tight around his left ankle and under his knee and he gets it. Boots lifted to be planted on the dash as Chris ducks low under his leg and twists cursing as his back scrapes against the truck door and cold glass. Steve’s knees almost brush his nose and two sets of hands push denim lower, down to the top of his boots.

Twisting on the seat, Steve leans forward to strip his shirt away, finally baring as much skin as he can, needing to touch and taste and be touched in return. Skin goosing at the slide of wet hair under his calf when Chris ducks down again, and Steve can see a long red welt marring evenly sun-tanned skin where Chris’s back dragged against the door handle. Hands placed either side of Steve’s hips, kisses bitten into his lips chase away any vestige of coldness. 

His skin floods with heat, an aching hunger settles low in his belly and Steve’s fingers drag over material to close on the silver belt buckle and tug until it comes loose in his hands. Slide of skin on skin as Chris leans into him, Steve’s fingers slipping behind denim to brush damp cotton and pluck at the waistband. Chris twisting against him, fighting to get out of his jeans and tangles of wet hair sneak into Steve’s mouth, shivering at the heat of Chris’s breath on his neck.

“Bet you wish you’d gone commando now…”

His words are greeted with another growl and the press of teeth, Steve’s neck arching into the bite and his hips rock up hard – body demanding as his mind and hands struggle to keep up. His fingers knot into Chris’s hair again, fighting the kisses bitten into his skin from his neck and along his jaw, wanting only to have Chris’s mouth on his right the fuck now, aching to have Chris’s dick inside him.

Chris’s mouth covers his in a deep, wet, hungry kiss that leaves them both panting when Chris rocks back. A question in his eyes, cause everything is in the back, and Steve’s chin drops in a nod of assent cause there’s no way in hell he wants to stop now. Chris raises his hand to his mouth, spits into his palm and it’s gonna be hard and fast and Steve doesn’t give a fuck, just knows that six months has been too long. He’s waited long enough. 

Steve’s boots spread mud all over the dash as his feet push a little further apart until material drags tight. Heated press of Chris’s cock sliding slowly into him and Steve’s the one growling when Chris pauses and tries to take it slow, cause it’s not nearly enough. Steve’s fingers dig into Chris’s shoulder, tighten in his hair, dragging him close, legs tightening around Chris’s hips and both of them are sucking in ragged desperate breaths.

Shoulders pressed into the seat, spine bowing and there’s no way he can fucking move. The plastic under his boots groans when his hips lift off the seat, weight braced from shoulders to feet and he really does think his spine is going to snap. Chris’s hands on his hips, lifting him, the long, slow burn as Chris’s cock presses deeper, his knees slipping under until Steve’s practically sitting in Chris’s lap.

Fingers twining in Chris’s hair, nails grazing the scalp beneath, and his groan is fed into Chris’s mouth. The one clear thought skittering across his mind - that they’re too damn old to be making out like a couple of horny teenagers in the cab - is burned to ashes as Chris’s hips twist.

The only way he can move is to rock from the knees, his shoulders braced against the seat, the muscles in his thighs knotting and releasing with even the slightest shift. Ten bright points of fire where Chris’s nails dig deep into his skin, holding him up, taking his weight. Steve’s gaze follows the bunched muscles in Chris’s forearm, the curve of his bicep, and what he really wants to do right now is lick a path from wrist to shoulder, wants it so bad he can taste it, salt on skin, making his mouth water . Steve wants to sink his teeth into muscle until Chris makes that growl from real low down and fists his fingers in Steve’s hair.

But he can’t reach and so he settles for the next best thing, grazing teeth and gentle licks followed by softly mouthed bites along Chris’s collarbone from shoulder to neck. Mouth covering the pulse he can see beating there, sucking hard on it until he can feel it throb against his tongue, its rhythm matched by the beat of Steve’s heart.

Stubble grazes his cheek as Chris’s mouth closes on his ear with a clink of metal against teeth. Chris’s tongue slides through the silver ring and flicks, and damn if that doesn’t make Steve try and climb closer, as if there was any way he could get any closer other than to climb inside Chris’s skin.

A warning growl slides into his head, Chris’s teeth closing around metal to tug when Steve bites down a little too hard on the ridge of shoulder muscle under his mouth. There’s a laugh trapped somewhere deep in his belly, and he’s grinning into suntanned skin as his teeth bite deeper, cause there’s a sweetness to hearing that growl again. A skitter of anticipation flares brightly along nerves, pleasure almost teetering on the edge of pain as the ring is pulled hard. 

Streams of warm air blown over hot, wet skin and they’re shivering against each other when Chris leans back a little, his weight shifting, his hand sliding over Steve’s hip to find the small of his back, fingers spreading wide.

Licking his lips, wanting to taste skin that has been torn from his mouth Steve looks up into eyes gone black and fathomless as a moonlit night, pupils wide and dark and eating up the blue. Chris’s fingers stroke from his elbow upwards, nails grazing lightly over skin, fingers curling around Steve’s wrist. Thumb sliding over the softness to pause and press on veins and tendons until Steve’s fingers loosen and untangle from Chris’s hair.

Chris’s grip tightens, pushing his hand down, and Steve fights it, his palm cupping Chris’s jaw, thumb drawn down over swollen and kiss bruised lips. He fights it to feel the teasing flick of Chris’s tongue over the pad of his thumb followed by the bite of teeth. Fights it to feel Chris’s grip tighten hard until bones grate in his wrist and Steve’s breath hisses between his lips.

Surrendering finally, palm pressed flat to Chris’s skin as his hand is pushed down. Fingertips tracing the dip behind Chris’s collarbone, fingers splaying wide across his chest, nails curving to drag over a nipple and feel it harden under his touch. A flash of teeth as Chris sends him a grin gone wild and feral, and Steve’s palm ghosts over the tightening muscles in Chris’s belly. 

“Touch yourself.” 

Chris’s words are half-growled, half-whispered, hungry and needy and wanting and Steve feels like he’s dancing close to the sun. Skin burning to a crisp, muscles charred away, fire searing his mouth and throat as moisture evaporates. 

Fingers release their grip on his wrist, slide oh so gently over the back of his hand and pause. Steve blinks, the sting of sweat and water making his vision hazy and looks down to see Chris’s hand cradling his…waiting…and swear to God he cannot help himself.

Fingers lacing with Chris’s he drags their joined hands up, holds them close, but not close enough to touch. Holds them close while his body screams, feeling the ghostly touch in the slight disturbance of air drifting over heated skin, tightens his grip when Chris tries to push their hands down. Holds them close while the ache in his balls rises to his belly, claws its way up his throat, until he can feel the desperate whimper trapped behind his teeth.

Steve looks up to meet Chris’s eyes, eyes that burn into his promising this won’t be forgotten and revenge can be very, very sweet indeed. Dancing with the devil, no mistake, and Steve’s laugh breaks free, as his fingers wrap around his own cock, never taking his eyes from Chris’s as he drags him close, sucks that pouty lip through his teeth into a biting kiss.

Chris’s hand curls around his hip, slides under his back to join the other at the bottom of his spine, muscles flexing in his arms. Takes them a minute to even halfway find a rhythm they not gonna be able to keep cause it’s _always_ like this when they haven’t been around each other for a while. 

Chris’s hips twist impossibly and hit that spot right _there_ and Steve’s losing the battle to hold out. Hands lifting his hips higher, Chris’s nails digging into his ass, the muscles in his thighs screaming and knotting, his boots scraping on the dashboard, shoulders pressing back into leather.

He’s dancing on the edge of a fucking precipice, toes curling in his boots, scrabbling for purchase, his fingers digging deep into the swell of Chris’s bicep. But Chris never gives quarter and this is a battle neither of them can ever hope to win. 

One more twist, one more slide of his palm over his own skin and Steve’s head rocks back against the cab, eyes fluttering closed. Heat pulses over his hand and onto his belly, body clamping tight, flying so fucking high he’d swear he could touch the stars dancing behind his eyes.

Legs tightening around Chris’s hips, riding the whirlwind for sure, hot breath scalding his neck and cheek, sticky fingers peeled from his skin, sliding up Chris’s back touching as much of him as possible. Both hands fisting into Chris’s hair, pulling his head back, finding the heat of his mouth, swallowing mumbled words and curses as Chris’s body shakes, tremors threatening to break both of them apart.

Panted breaths and slowing heartbeats and Steve’s nose is buried deep in Chris’s hair smelling the musky scent he never realizes he misses until moments like this. Chris’s tongue and lips are warm on his neck, licking and kissing away the sting of teeth marks.

Rain pounding against the cab and maybe they’ll drive into town, grab a motel room and come back out tomorrow. Maybe they’ll crash in the cab, or sleep under the tarp if the rain stops, the scent of wet earth and fresh vegetation a contrast to the smell of sex and sweat and come on their skin. Nothing they haven’t done before and won’t do again. 

They’ll take as much time as they need and Steve knows that when they finally head back to LA he’ll have burned that wounded look right out of Chris’s eyes, buried it deep under something else. 

Until the next time.

Steve’s not the guy who gets called first. He hasn’t been since a month after Chris walked onto the set of Angel and an old friendship turned into something else altogether.

He knows it and lives with it because in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter. Chris always comes back. After nine years there’s much more to them than the slide of skin on skin and a few moments stolen from the responsibility of family and the prying eyes of a camera. 

There’s more to them even than just the music. 

He can’t explain it to anyone, can’t even explain it to himself. It just is.

He won’t deny that sometimes he’s pissed that he’s the go to guy who gets to pick up the pieces and put Chris back together until the next time. But he knows he’ll keep on doing it until Chris decides enough is enough and that for some things there are no happy endings.


End file.
